Rambling Autobiography
People like types. They like categories, the like labels. Are you a morning person or a night person? What's your favorite season? I hate questions like that. I don't like waking up, but when I do just slap an apron on me and I'll make you breakfast and sing to you while I do. I didn't go to bed until 2:30 last night. I like summer. Big black sunhats and bathing suites, sleeping in, staying up, damp sweat and pool water. I like popsicles and bonfires and laughter all caught in Polaroid pictures because yes, Polaroids are making a comeback. This plan is better in theory.
How many popsicles have I had? One.
How many times have I gone to the pool? None.
My black hat is still in the closet, my sunglasses stay on my head.
I can't choose anything.
I'm indecisive, that's my character flaw. What's your favorite color? Don't have one. Too many choices.
I could write about myself for hours and hours. Is that vain? Yes. But that's the easiest thing in the world to write about. I don't know if you can already tell (you probably can) I have a choppy and disconnected voice. I like long lists and the word 'and' and descriptive images and ending with a simple sentence. I'm ridiculously informal.
They way I think about people is not as who they are but who they were and who they're going to be. Every person you see has been a baby, been in diapers. They've cried about something and they've laughed so hard their stomach hurts. The have meals they love and snack they hate. Some'll smile at you in the grocery store and some won't. I am deeply fascinated with people, with the human experience, with the lives of others.
Camera Writing
Ten wooden panels and some black wrought iron. It isn't special. No, In Memory Of, or Class of Whenever. It could fit more than seven, depending on if you sit on laps or not. The stained varnish had long since washed off through the years of heavy Georgia downpours. It would bleach in the summer sun if not for the hefty oak that coats It in shade. It sits in the candy colored green grass and smells like dew and smoke from the ashtrays next to It. People use It. Bored little boys pulling out their game boys sit and play and wait for something. Shy couples scoot close to each other holding hands and exchanging unsure kisses on cheeks. They exchange pouty goodbyes and It waits. It waits. It waits. No one spends their night on It asleep. It's forced to watch the sunrise alone. In summer it bakes and in winter it freezes. It waits and It watches. Ten wooden panels and some black wrought iron. It isn't special.
Essay Draft
It’s a nauseous sort of feeling, that hollow heavy pit of nervousness and fatigue. You know it. I know it. It’s sickeningly familiar. Something, that feeling, sifts to the bottom of your stomach and makes your heart pant, egger and anxious with fear and with fright. We don’t listen to our director introduce the show, we don’t have to. Instead we exchange preshow hugs, clammy high fives, and kisses on the cheek. The question, “Are you nervous?” and the lie of an answer, “Nah,” is ping-ponged through back stage. The curtain draws back, gracefully gliding into the wings. I think of the cold war. No Iron Curtain could be as heavy as the one in front of me. The music begins our cue to gavotte on stage. The air is frigid and the lights are hot. Hot like summertime, like campfires, like the freshly brewed coffee in the hands of our stage manager. There’s music and there’s dancing and costumes swish back and forth like ocean waves only much less calm. I've rehearsed it a thousand times. Stage left. Stage right. Forward then back and side to side. Fan kicks and tendu. Don't forget to smile. I don't even have to think about it now. Off stage, there's a frenzy of smiles, the rest of my cast huddled in the wings watching the side silhouette of friends, of the rest of our family. Someone jabs another pin in my hair. My face is in caught in someone's hands, the familiar tickle of bristle on my face and the thick smell of blush. "Thanks." "Quiet back stage!" A hissed whisper. I slink off to the other side dodging props and racks of dresses. There's a thunderous applause, the number is over, and my heart thumps for my friends. More sweaty high fives and being wrapped in the arms of costumes. Light pushes past the black curtains in filthy pond water puddles. Fingers lace through mine with a silent "You ready?" in my ear. Nodding, I make my way on stage. There's a moment where all you see is hot white light. It burns your ears and tans your face. That, coupled with nerves makes me think I'm dying. For a moment I wonder if I'm in heaven, but then my eyes adjust and I'm able to make out the soft curves of faces and straight lined jaws. It is then I realize I'm already there.
Take Two
I am only myself when I am someone else. All costumes and hair, big smiles and sad eyes framed with thick fake lashes the color of coal. I like my head thinking thoughts about who I am even though I'm not. Where to go, what to say and think. It's easy to be someone else. It's hard to play yourself (I think that's from High School Musical, actually). It's true though. To sit and be me is boring. I feel like people want definite answers and things to do. Places to put you in little striped bin like a toy or a scarf or muddy rain boots. The fact is, people are constantly changing. Evolving and growing, learning and developing new beliefs and ideas as they grow. That's why I like being someone else. Constant and simple, very set in the stone of a script. It's an easy thing to do. Never boring. It's cool to see everyone else that way. So different from their rehearsal blacks and sweatpants. They're different. You're different but you're all the same and best friends off the stage. It is a great and powerful thing to be someone else.
Take Three
It’s a nauseous sort of feeling, that hollow heavy pit of nervousness and fatigue. You know it. I know it. It’s sickeningly familiar. Something, that feeling, sifts to the bottom of your stomach and makes your heart pant, eager and anxious with fear and with fright. We don’t listen to our director introduce the show. We don’t have to. Instead we exchange preshow hugs, clammy high fives, and kisses on the cheek. The question, “Are you nervous?” and the lie of an answer, “Nah,” is ping-ponged through back stage.
The curtain draws back, gracefully gliding into the wings. I think of the cold war. No Iron Curtain could be as heavy as the one in front of me. The music begins our cue to gavotte on stage. The air is frigid and the lights are hot. Hot like summertime, like campfires, like the freshly brewed coffee in the hands of our stage manager. There’s music and there’s dancing and costumes swish back and forth like ocean waves only much less calm.
I've rehearsed it a thousand times. Stage left. Stage right. Forward then back and side to side. Fan kicks and tendu. Don't forget to smile. I don't even have to think about it now.
Off stage, there's a frenzy of smiles, the rest of my cast huddled in the wings watching the side silhouette of friends, of the rest of our family. Someone jabs another pin in my hair. My face is in caught in someone's hands, the familiar tickle of bristle on my face and the thick smell of blush. "Thanks."
"Quiet back stage!" A hissed whisper.
I slink off to the other side dodging props and racks of dresses. There's a thunderous applause, the number is over, and my heart thumps for my friends. More sweaty high fives and being wrapped in the arms of costumes. Light pushes past the black curtains in filthy pond water puddles. Fingers lace through mine with a silent, "You ready?" in my ear. Nodding, I make my way on stage.
There's a moment where all I see is hot white light. It burns my ears and tans my face. That, coupled with bubbling nerves, racing hearts, and nausea makes me think I'm dying. For a moment I wonder if I'm in heaven, but then my eyes adjust and I'm able to make out the soft curves of faces and straight lined jaws. It is then I realize I'm already there.
I'm only myself when I'm someone else. A china doll that comes to life through frilly costumes and curled hair, big smiles and sad eyes framed with thick fake eyelashes the color of coal. When the show is over, back to the shelf to wither and rot alone as myself. People want definite answers. Places to put you in little stripped bins, like a toy or a scarf or muddy rain boots. The problem is everyone is constantly changing. They strip from their costumes to wear a new one. Maybe they take the over coat, or the hat they wore the first time. No costume is ever ideal. New. New. New. Now. Now. Now.
Always.
This is why it's easy being someone else. Constant and simple, set in script to forever be the same. It is a great and powerful thing to be someone else. That nauseous sort of feeling, that hollow heavy pit of nervousness and fatigue never goes away when I'm myself. It likes to stay and linger like the soft huffs of colored smoke from an already exploded firework.
It's a safety thing. That feeling that I'm home. I am content to do freely what I please. In a snow globe that sprinkles glitter and joy. I adjust my satin bow the way people like to adjust my views. It was Shakespeare who famously said, "All the world's a stage." I disagree.
The stage is all the worlds.
Six Room Poem
Black iron like twisting branches
Small squares and patches
Hidden away in dark shadows
Though light dances all around
Still it shakes back and forth
A sad, quiet creaking
Who put it there?
Where did it come from?
How many have sat in the seat?
Laziness and feet on tables
Slowly rocking back and forth
Six Word Memoir
Being the optimist is never easy.
Rambling Autobiography
People like types. They like categories, the like labels. Are you a morning person or a night person? What's your favorite season? I hate questions like that. I don't like waking up, but when I do just slap an apron on me and I'll make you breakfast and sing to you while I do. I didn't go to bed until 2:30 last night. I like summer. Big black sunhats and bathing suites, sleeping in, staying up, damp sweat and pool water. I like popsicles and bonfires and laughter all caught in Polaroid pictures because yes, Polaroids are making a comeback. This plan is better in theory.
How many popsicles have I had? One.
How many times have I gone to the pool? None.
My black hat is still in the closet, my sunglasses stay on my head.
I can't choose anything.
I'm indecisive, that's my character flaw. What's your favorite color? Don't have one. Too many choices.
I could write about myself for hours and hours. Is that vain? Yes. But that's the easiest thing in the world to write about. I don't know if you can already tell (you probably can) I have a choppy and disconnected voice. I like long lists and the word 'and' and descriptive images and ending with a simple sentence. I'm ridiculously informal.
They way I think about people is not as who they are but who they were and who they're going to be. Every person you see has been a baby, been in diapers. They've cried about something and they've laughed so hard their stomach hurts. The have meals they love and snack they hate. Some'll smile at you in the grocery store and some won't. I am deeply fascinated with people, with the human experience, with the lives of others.
Camera Writing
Ten wooden panels and some black wrought iron. It isn't special. No, In Memory Of, or Class of Whenever. It could fit more than seven, depending on if you sit on laps or not. The stained varnish had long since washed off through the years of heavy Georgia downpours. It would bleach in the summer sun if not for the hefty oak that coats It in shade. It sits in the candy colored green grass and smells like dew and smoke from the ashtrays next to It. People use It. Bored little boys pulling out their game boys sit and play and wait for something. Shy couples scoot close to each other holding hands and exchanging unsure kisses on cheeks. They exchange pouty goodbyes and It waits. It waits. It waits. No one spends their night on It asleep. It's forced to watch the sunrise alone. In summer it bakes and in winter it freezes. It waits and It watches. Ten wooden panels and some black wrought iron. It isn't special.Essay Draft
It’s a nauseous sort of feeling, that hollow heavy pit of nervousness and fatigue. You know it. I know it. It’s sickeningly familiar. Something, that feeling, sifts to the bottom of your stomach and makes your heart pant, egger and anxious with fear and with fright. We don’t listen to our director introduce the show, we don’t have to. Instead we exchange preshow hugs, clammy high fives, and kisses on the cheek. The question, “Are you nervous?” and the lie of an answer, “Nah,” is ping-ponged through back stage.The curtain draws back, gracefully gliding into the wings. I think of the cold war. No Iron Curtain could be as heavy as the one in front of me. The music begins our cue to gavotte on stage. The air is frigid and the lights are hot. Hot like summertime, like campfires, like the freshly brewed coffee in the hands of our stage manager. There’s music and there’s dancing and costumes swish back and forth like ocean waves only much less calm.
I've rehearsed it a thousand times. Stage left. Stage right. Forward then back and side to side. Fan kicks and tendu. Don't forget to smile. I don't even have to think about it now.
Off stage, there's a frenzy of smiles, the rest of my cast huddled in the wings watching the side silhouette of friends, of the rest of our family. Someone jabs another pin in my hair. My face is in caught in someone's hands, the familiar tickle of bristle on my face and the thick smell of blush. "Thanks."
"Quiet back stage!" A hissed whisper.
I slink off to the other side dodging props and racks of dresses. There's a thunderous applause, the number is over, and my heart thumps for my friends. More sweaty high fives and being wrapped in the arms of costumes. Light pushes past the black curtains in filthy pond water puddles. Fingers lace through mine with a silent "You ready?" in my ear. Nodding, I make my way on stage.
There's a moment where all you see is hot white light. It burns your ears and tans your face. That, coupled with nerves makes me think I'm dying. For a moment I wonder if I'm in heaven, but then my eyes adjust and I'm able to make out the soft curves of faces and straight lined jaws. It is then I realize I'm already there.
Take Two
I am only myself when I am someone else. All costumes and hair, big smiles and sad eyes framed with thick fake lashes the color of coal. I like my head thinking thoughts about who I am even though I'm not. Where to go, what to say and think.It's easy to be someone else. It's hard to play yourself (I think that's from High School Musical, actually). It's true though. To sit and be me is boring. I feel like people want definite answers and things to do. Places to put you in little striped bin like a toy or a scarf or muddy rain boots.
The fact is, people are constantly changing. Evolving and growing, learning and developing new beliefs and ideas as they grow.
That's why I like being someone else. Constant and simple, very set in the stone of a script. It's an easy thing to do.
Never boring. It's cool to see everyone else that way. So different from their rehearsal blacks and sweatpants. They're different. You're different but you're all the same and best friends off the stage. It is a great and powerful thing to be someone else.
Take Three
It’s a nauseous sort of feeling, that hollow heavy pit of nervousness and fatigue. You know it. I know it. It’s sickeningly familiar. Something, that feeling, sifts to the bottom of your stomach and makes your heart pant, eager and anxious with fear and with fright. We don’t listen to our director introduce the show. We don’t have to. Instead we exchange preshow hugs, clammy high fives, and kisses on the cheek. The question, “Are you nervous?” and the lie of an answer, “Nah,” is ping-ponged through back stage.
The curtain draws back, gracefully gliding into the wings. I think of the cold war. No Iron Curtain could be as heavy as the one in front of me. The music begins our cue to gavotte on stage. The air is frigid and the lights are hot. Hot like summertime, like campfires, like the freshly brewed coffee in the hands of our stage manager. There’s music and there’s dancing and costumes swish back and forth like ocean waves only much less calm.
I've rehearsed it a thousand times. Stage left. Stage right. Forward then back and side to side. Fan kicks and tendu. Don't forget to smile. I don't even have to think about it now.
Off stage, there's a frenzy of smiles, the rest of my cast huddled in the wings watching the side silhouette of friends, of the rest of our family. Someone jabs another pin in my hair. My face is in caught in someone's hands, the familiar tickle of bristle on my face and the thick smell of blush. "Thanks."
"Quiet back stage!" A hissed whisper.
I slink off to the other side dodging props and racks of dresses. There's a thunderous applause, the number is over, and my heart thumps for my friends. More sweaty high fives and being wrapped in the arms of costumes. Light pushes past the black curtains in filthy pond water puddles. Fingers lace through mine with a silent, "You ready?" in my ear. Nodding, I make my way on stage.
There's a moment where all I see is hot white light. It burns my ears and tans my face. That, coupled with bubbling nerves, racing hearts, and nausea makes me think I'm dying. For a moment I wonder if I'm in heaven, but then my eyes adjust and I'm able to make out the soft curves of faces and straight lined jaws. It is then I realize I'm already there.
I'm only myself when I'm someone else. A china doll that comes to life through frilly costumes and curled hair, big smiles and sad eyes framed with thick fake eyelashes the color of coal. When the show is over, back to the shelf to wither and rot alone as myself. People want definite answers. Places to put you in little stripped bins, like a toy or a scarf or muddy rain boots. The problem is everyone is constantly changing. They strip from their costumes to wear a new one. Maybe they take the over coat, or the hat they wore the first time. No costume is ever ideal. New. New. New. Now. Now. Now.
Always.
This is why it's easy being someone else. Constant and simple, set in script to forever be the same. It is a great and powerful thing to be someone else. That nauseous sort of feeling, that hollow heavy pit of nervousness and fatigue never goes away when I'm myself. It likes to stay and linger like the soft huffs of colored smoke from an already exploded firework.
It's a safety thing. That feeling that I'm home. I am content to do freely what I please. In a snow globe that sprinkles glitter and joy. I adjust my satin bow the way people like to adjust my views. It was Shakespeare who famously said, "All the world's a stage." I disagree.
The stage is all the worlds.
Six Room Poem
Black iron like twisting branches
Small squares and patches
Hidden away in dark shadows
Though light dances all around
Still it shakes back and forth
A sad, quiet creaking
Who put it there?
Where did it come from?
How many have sat in the seat?
Laziness and feet on tables
Slowly rocking back and forth